The Death of a Killer
by Monroe Smith
Summary: The downpour is relentlessly pounding against the rat-infested apartment building. Inside, an assassin's pistol is tickling the tonsils of his latest assignment. But who is the true target on this stormy night? *Story Complete*


The man cringed at the metallic flavor on his tongue and thought it tasted like death. He constantly blinked as a futile attempt to keep the beads of sweat from burning his eyes. He felt more powerless than a paraplegic in a gym. It might have been a result of his current state of vulnerability and helplessness, or perhaps it was the thick drool dripping from his chin that evoked the feeling. He found himself on his knees in the dark, deep throating the long barrel of .45 caliber pistol, a feat that would have impressed any self-respecting porn actress. His living room had an aroma of stale booze and cheap women. The two scents combined effortlessly to give the essence of sardines marinated in piss. The downpour outside was smashing against the side of his crummy apartment like the sound of boots marching in formation, but all he heard was the clinking of steel against his teeth as he trembled.

As he gazed up at the dark figure towering over him, his eyes were silently screaming for mercy, but the pleas went unnoticed. His assassin was staring straight ahead, his attention seemed transfixed on something outside the glass door of the balcony. Was there a woman undressing in one of the windows across the street? Whatever it was, he could tell by the furrowed brows and squinted eyes that the killer was having difficulty seeing through the rain-drenched glass. The man felt offended. Here he was on his knees, experiencing the most traumatizing, and in all likelihood, last moment of his life, and his killer didn't even have the decency to give him his undivided attention. His fear made a new friend named resentment. Together, this new pair of buddies convinced him to take advantage of the situation and use this opportunity to make a move. He had seen it done in more action movies than he cared to remember. He would simultaneously slide his head back and smack the gun away from his face. If his movements were fluid enough, he could launch himself into the core of his assassin and take him down. Once on the floor, it was fair game.

Suddenly, as if the poor bastard's dim idea was anticipated, the dark eyes of the assassin grew wide and seemed to absorb some of the moonlight. To the man's surprise, he felt the cold steel leaving his mouth and rising up towards his forehead.

_Bang_!

The man heard the shot but never saw a flash, just shards of broken glass flying past him from behind. Warm blood splattered across his face and once again he cringed at the metallic taste on his tongue. The assassin stumbled backwards and tripped over the low coffee table as a second shot rang out and hit the wall behind him as he was falling. The killer grunted in pain on the floor while gripping his right shoulder. The man remained on his knees for a few seconds in bewilderment before scampering on his hands and knees to the bathroom and locking the door. The assassin rolled over onto his stomach, got on one knee and then made a dash for the front door that had been left ajar.

Slamming through the door he hit the wall and slumped in the dimly lit hallway for a moment, trying to assess the severity of his wound. The pain was subsiding, but he knew that wasn't a good sign. His body was going into shock. From around the corner he could hear multiple footsteps growing louder. Something told him the footsteps didn't belong to any residents. He switched the gun to his blood-soaked left hand and gripped it as best he could. Two men in SWAT uniforms appeared from around the corner. The assassin fired three shots in their direction, hitting one of them in the chest, and they retreated back behind the wall for cover. The bullets in his gun wouldn't even so much as tickle their bulletproof vests. He was outnumbered and outgunned. He needed an escape route, but the only exit from the building was through his new friends with high-powered assault rifles.

He glanced back inside the dark living room at the window facing the alley. It was dumb idea, but in the absence of any good ones, he had no choice. He ran back through the door of his target's living room and sprinted towards the window. A hail of bullets trailed behind him as he ran, leaving a crooked dotted line on the wall across from the balcony. He fired a single shot at the window and jumped out into the night, falling to the cracked pavement two stories below. He landed hard on his wounded shoulder, and for a few moments he was immobilized by the pain. The rain was pounding his face with as much mercy as he had shown his victims throughout the years. His head was spinning and his vision blurred. He wasn't sure if it was due to the fall or his loss of blood, but he knew he didn't give a damn, he had to move quickly.

He willed himself onto his feet and moved down the narrow alley using the wall for support. His blurred vision seemed to fluctuate with the irregular rhythm of his heartbeat. He was halfway down the alley when he heard a shout from the window he had crashed through.

"There he is! Don't let him escape!"

Chunks of brick flew off the wall beside him as he ran. Another sharp jolt of pain erupted in his torso as he found himself falling forward. He reached out to catch hold of a dumpster but missed and landed in a murky puddle of rain and scraps of trash. This time it was he who cringed at the metallic taste in his mouth. He had difficulty breathing. A gurgling sound echoed from his throat with each breath. He could tell his body was failing fast, but there was no way in hell he was going to let himself die in the filth of this alley. He may have been absent of morals, but he did have standards. He mustered the strength to get to his feet and pushed forward. The gunfire had ceased. Perhaps they thought the shot was fatal and were rushing down the stairs to claim their trophy.

He could see red and blue flashes decorating the night sky at the end of the alley ahead of him. To go forward would mean walking into a firing squad. He looked around quickly for an alternate route and found none. With a carnival of trigger-happy clowns on one side and the opposite end of the alley soon to be occupied by the prizewinners rushing out to claim their glory, he knew he was trapped. He leaned back against the apartment building and began to contemplate his defeat when he noticed a double door that was chained with a padlock. With no time to spare, he tried to focus his vision and shot at the lock but missed. The second shot was a success. He ripped the chains off the two handles and went inside, closing the doors behind him.

He had entered through the side of a large room with shadows dancing across the walls and red carpet. The flames from the candlelight heated the air around him, and despite the stained glass windows and overall cleanliness, he felt like he was in Hell. A smirk formed on his lips. He had to appreciate the irony. He staggered down the center aisle past the rows of benches and up a couple of steps to study the stone figure on a crucifix before him. He coughed blood and slumped at the feet of the man he had always despised. With his back against the statue, he looked up and met the eyes that were solemnly looking down on him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-finished pack of cigarettes.

"Smoke?" he said, pulling one out and offering it to the stone face peering at him.

"Suit yourself." His hand shook as he sparked the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Instantly he was hacking up blood on his shirt. The pain in his lung increased tenfold. He gripped his chest with the cigarette still fastened between his fingers and put his head back against the statue. Warm blood was seeping from the corners of his mouth. The faces of those he had robbed of life flashed in his mind and his agony increased, but the pain wasn't emotional. He chuckled and spat blood on the crimson carpet. He had no regrets and no remorse. The world would always have its share of killers, and most considered him to be one of the best, well worth the investment. He was proud of his blood-stained resume. He held the gun in his lap and ran his thumb across the nickel plated handle, caressing it like a loved one of their deathbed.

The doors swung open and five SWAT uniforms rushed inside, taking cover behind the back row of benches. Five assault rifles were fixed on him, and he glanced down at the choreography of red dots dancing across his chest.

"Toss your weapon and lay face down with your hands behind your head!"

He flicked the cigarette, closed his eyes, and laughed painfully.

"Last chance, asshole! Toss the fucking gun and lay face down!"

Didn't they see that wasn't an option? He muttered _fuck you _under his breath and raised the pistol. His chest exploded as his body convulsed violently. He slumped to the side and once again found his eyes meeting those of the statue. Blood drops littered the stone and trickled down in uneven lines. As his vision darkened for the last time, he swore he saw a tear of blood running down the cold cheek of the grief-stricken face. It was a tear not for him, but for all of his victims.


End file.
